


It’s not a picture perfect life (let me write my own line)

by TheDandyRascal



Series: SWTOR oneshots: early game [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Songfic, brooding introspection, spoilers for imperial agent storyline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28817220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDandyRascal/pseuds/TheDandyRascal
Summary: A restless night for Alton Huxley as he contemplates being in charge of his own destiny for the first time in his life.Set post-Imperial Agent story line
Relationships: Male Imperial Agent | Cipher Nine/Male Sith Warrior
Series: SWTOR oneshots: early game [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112813
Kudos: 4





	It’s not a picture perfect life (let me write my own line)

**Author's Note:**

> Although I've had SWTOR since its launch in 2011, I didn't really play it in earnest until after getting hyped about Star Wars again after The Force Awakens released. I created a fresh character for a full play through and thought it was _hilarious_ that I could make a smug looking redhead that reminded of me of General Hux, hence my Imperial Agent named Huxley (or Hux for short). Since then I've played through all of the class story lines and the Imperial Agent is still one of my favourites.
> 
> This story was written back in 2016 and figured it shouldn't languish in my Google Drive forever. It was inspired by the song "Hopeless Opus" by Imagine Dragons.

**Port Nowhere, Outer Rim Territories**

  
  


Six months ago if someone had asked Imperial Intelligence operative Alton Huxley to willingly dock at the notoriously criminal riddled space station Port Nowhere, he would have laughed in their face. Because why in the  _ Maker _ would any half-respectable person choose to associate with the scum and villainy that frequented that wretched bucket of bolts?

How far the mighty have fallen.

It wasn’t that he  _ needed _ to avoid the Imperial fleet. His crew were still Imperial citizens after all and the ship was fully registered with appropriate tags and clearance levels. Alton Huxley just didn’t exist  _ per say _ in any Imperial databases. The Minister had given him a weighty choice after the fall of the Star Cabal, standing in the cool, sterile office on the  _ Tenebrous _ with the innocuous-looking Black Codex in his hand: turn the device over to the Dark Council and take a position within the new Sith Intelligence agency, or use its power to erase himself from record and continue to fight the good fight, unattached and led only by his own moral compass. To go his own way in the galaxy and restore the Empire on his own terms. It hadn’t been a particularly difficult choice at the time, but repercussions had certainly been felt since. 

Surely he and Jae weren’t the first married couple to both no longer exist on record while still being entirely alive, right?

  
  


It was an odd sensation, being in charge of his own destiny. Ever since Alton was a small boy his life had been planned out for him. First by his parents and the legacy they felt duty bound to uphold, preparing all of their children to be raised and shaped by the Imperial Academy. His memories of sitting on the floor in his father’s study -- workbooks spread around him as he obediently filled them with blocky child’s writing -- were dim now. He couldn’t have been more than six years old. The Academy accepted children as young as eight into a preparatory program and off he’d been sent, just like his brothers before him and his sister to follow.

The Academy had been his life for over a decade. He lived and breathed Imperial rhetoric, every moment of his existence scheduled and regulated. Alton still couldn’t take more than 10 minutes to shower unless he really tried at it. The habits and mannerisms ingrained into students lasted a lifetime and took nearly as long to break. But that behaviour had made him an exemplary officer; at least he’d always been told that by superiors. Who knows how far he would have gotten in the Navy by now, if he hadn’t transferred to Intelligence? Major at least, perhaps even Colonel. His early accolades had far outstripped those of both his elder brothers, Eton and Tomas, who would probably never amount to more than a rank of Captain in their entire careers. While they were model officers in their own right, the Huxley name could only take them so far. Real promotion only came to those with a sense of keen leadership, tactical brilliance, uniqueness, nerve, and talent. Rules and regulations were the backbone of the Imperial military, but its successes and direction was only as good as the creativity of its leadership. And Alton was exceptionally creative.

It was no wonder his parents ceased speaking to him when he transferred to Intelligence. His mother had been sore after discovering his secret marriage but she’d been coming around about Jaedin, even though it meant Alton wouldn’t be continuing the family name. Jaedin had been as decorated and praised as himself, both destined for bigger and better things. Then all of the careful planning and grooming and  _ effort _ had fallen to pieces. He was supposed to be the golden boy of his generation, a Huxley to  _ remember _ , but instead he had chosen to fade into anonymity. To no longer exist.

* * *

Hux shifted in the navigator’s seat, his boots propped up against the edge of a bulkhead. A datapad lay forgotten in his lap as he stared out at the shimmering blur of hyperspace. It was easy to get lost in the randomness of lightspeed travel, to get mesmerized by the stars and all their possibilities. It’d been a long couple of months entrenched in an operation on Geonosis rooting out an SIS operation intent on influencing the Geonosian droid foundries into breaching their contractual obligations to the Empire. It had been delicate work for the whole team and the first full-scale operation without any support from Intelligence or the military. He’d selected the objectives, he’d designated roles, he’d called the shots. It was both stressful and exhilarating.

By the end of the first few weeks his crew had really come through. Kaliyo’s style of...  _ habitual untruth _ had come in useful when creating rich backstories and personas for everyone, spinning up new ones whenever one got burned, sometimes at the drop of a hat. Lokin’s wealth of experience as a veteran of the field had been critical, alongside the Fixer’s devotion to the health and safety of everyone onboard. Temple’s subterfuge skills had been rapidly improving and coupled with her instincts and little bag of Force tricks, had been eager to take on more responsibility. Even SCORPIO had become invaluable to the team, acting as their slicer, research services, communications hub, and tactical computation expert; no longer bored, she hadn’t threatened to kill Hux in weeks. He almost trusted her.  _ Almost. _

And Vector. His innate positivity and strength of spirit had kept the team sane (although Hux was positive some of it had been pheromone driven), his Diplomatic Corps skills and connections as well as his incredible abilities as the Dawn Herald had been vital. He provided such a unique perspective to each and every situation, and had performed more than admirably in the field. Parallels between Geonosian culture and the Killik nest gave him an edge that allowed him to see subtleties and opportunities that Hux would have never picked up on; Vector had run point on several occasions, leaving Hux in the amusing position of ‘the muscle’ instead. They worked well together, whatever the circumstance.

In actuality, the whole crew had performed admirably. SCORPIO and Lokin had come to some sort of mutual agreement while they acted as HQ; the scientist was a treasure trove of secrets and knowledge, and he had begun to utilize the android’s considerable processing capabilities to aid in his own research. The more tasks she was given, the more pleasant she had become, and the good doctor added more each day. Temple and Kaliyo had shockingly gotten along very well in the field. Their personalities should have clashed but ended up complimenting each other nicely and they played ‘good agent, bad agent’ seamlessly. Turns out under her eager veneer of model officer, Raina Temple had a wicked sense of humour and a zest for adventure that Kaliyo had been willing to nurture. The operation had been successful with minimal failures, and one of Hux’s prouder moments in his career.

Still, for all their successes it had been exhausting work.

* * *

A decade ago, this wouldn’t have been his life. 

His life should have been the Navy. It should have been a crisp black uniform, shiny boots and Captain’s pips on his shoulder. It should have been days spent running troops through drills and simulations, spending time on the shooting range, and dutifully attending meetings and filling out paperwork. Living on a  _ Dreadnought _ -class ship, in small but tidy private quarters with his husband. Unwinding over a glass of brandy and talking about their days. Hux would curl behind him on a chair and knead knots from his shoulders and neck as Jaedin came up with increasingly difficult combat training regimes, spinning out elaborate challenges for simulations. 

Maybe some days they would be planet side, leading their squads into battle. Hux would hunker down with his team of snipers -- a radio in his ear and his eye pressed to a scope -- whispering targets to his crew. Jaedin would be closer to the front lines -- wearing trooper armour instead of his uniform -- helmet off as he barked orders into his broadcast comm and kept a pair of macro-binoculars up to his eyes. And Hux would assign one of his snipers to keep an eye on forward command, ready to pick off any opportunists hoping to take out a commander or two. Together, victory would have prevailed.

  
  


But life hadn’t gone that way at all.

Jaedin Rylak had died on an ill-fated training mission and Alton Huxley had ended up alone. The uniform hadn’t changed much, minus the Captain’s pips and name badge. Instead of being the trainer he’d become the trainee again. He still spent time on the shooting range, but rarely in meetings. He didn’t speak to anyone about his day, about his work. The few people he kept in polite contact with all thought he was some paper pusher in Archives. Keeping his cover with his family was surprisingly easy after they all stopped speaking to him, believing him to be a coward and disgrace to the Huxley name. He did receive the occasional note from his younger sister, but they reduced in frequency the longer she attended the Academy. All anyone saw was a promising officer turned bureaucrat, unwilling to fight on the front lines any longer and unfit for duty. 

Clearly they’d been wrong about that. He spent five years training and fighting  _ behind _ enemy lines; covert operations and tactical assassinations had been his specialty. He had taken all of his training from the Academy, the Navy, and turned it sideways so he slipped into place like a blade between the ribs. He’d learned how to become different people, to blend into a crowd, to expose weakness and faults in others for leverage. It had been shocking how easily the work had come to him, but he’d always been charming. And he’d always been hiding a different self from others. The military establishment, for all it’s efforts, had never managed to stop him from  _ caring _ about things that weren’t supposed to matter to an officer. The well-being of his direct reports, the consequences for civilians, the lasting impact of his actions… Alton Huxley had done a lot of brutal, terrible things over his storied career but he never did them without feeling their weight. Some considered a conscience to be a weakness; he considered it his greatest strength, and his meteoric rise to Cipher agent had proved him right. 

The work was important. Exciting, thrilling, almost addictive. And he’d thrived in it. The Navy wouldn’t have filled that desire in him, but he would have stayed for Jaedin. Although Hux wasn’t sure if that life would have been enough for either of them. 

  
  


* * *

Hux dropped his feet back down to the deck and pushed himself up from the navigator’s chair, stretching his fingers up to brush against the cockpit ceiling. He was stiff from sitting so long -- a few aches and twinges from minor injuries sustained on the mission -- and he was tired. Mentally, physically, he was run down. They still had 15 hours before reaching Port Nowhere; if anyone else were awake, he’d be sent off to bed. It wasn’t critical to have someone in the cockpit while in hyperspace -- after all that’s what 2V was for -- but he didn’t mind using the quiet monotony to think. 

Hux wandered out of the cockpit to find the cheerful droid so he could turn in for the night. He scratched his fingers through the beard on his cheeks and stifled a yawn; the beard was still a bit of a novelty, but it had worked incredibly well as a disguise. Kaliyo had been so confident that whatever grew on his face would end up looking ridiculous that she’d bet a hundred credits on it. While she’d been accurate for the first couple of weeks his beard had grown in quite nicely by the end of the month. The Rattataki had tried to weasel out of paying up by claiming he still looked hilarious because it had grown in quite ginger, but she’d eventually acquiesced and dropped a stack of credits into his lap. Becoming someone else with merely a change of clothes, a change of accent, a change of attitude was one of his favourite aspects of undercover work, even if it was only for a little while.

“Good evening, Master. Can I be of service?” the protocol droid swivelled its head away from its task in the galley.

Hux dropped his hands from his face. “Yes, 2V. I’m heading to my quarters for the evening and I would like you to monitor our remaining travel.”

“Of course, sir.” The droid started stowing cleaning supplies as Hux turned to leave. “Sir, if I might offer my services as a barber, do let me know.”

He touched his bristly chin again. “I think I may keep it for awhile, but thank you 2V.”

The droid continued to prattle on as Hux cut through the mid-ship room towards his quarters.

  
  


His room was cooler than the rest of the ship and the lights dim. Hux left them low as he undressed and slipped into the refresher for a quick sonic shower. Geonosis had been arid, not unlike Tatooine, and he still felt dusty hours after leaving. Once he was clean Hux stared at himself in the mirror for a few moments, unsure of what he felt about the man looking back at him. Temple had cut his hair to match the more casual, roguish look he’d been aiming for and it hadn’t taken long for the sun to lighten his auburn hair to the more ginger tone of his youth. Tousled and dry of pomade, it made him feel unkempt. Then again, he hadn’t gone a day in his adult life without shaving his face, so it didn’t matter what his hair looked like if the beard stayed. His skin freckled on Geonosis, like it had when he was a child. The faint spray across his nose had bloomed into existence immediately, followed by his hands and arms, even his shoulders from the days spent outside performing any number of manual tasks for the mission. Perhaps it was fitting that he no longer resembled Alton Sebastian Huxley. His own mother wouldn’t recognize him.

The sheets on his bed were soft and cool, and exhaustion weighed heavily as soon as he slipped between them. The lights dimmed further and Hux curled on his side around a pillow, sighing as his eyelids drooped closed. The steady gentle humming of the  _ Phantom _ was soothing, calming. It was odd to feel safe on a small ship hurtling through hyperspace, but he had come to accept the craft as his home. The tiny sparse apartment on Dromuund Kaas was still technically his, but there wasn’t much in it. Some spare uniforms, a small cache of weapons and supplies, books and casual personal items he hadn’t cared about leaving behind. Anything of true value was with him on the  _ Phantom _ , stowed in his cupboards or in the pair of battered Academy footlockers tucked beneath his bed. Nothing but sentiment in those though, the only attachment to his life before Intelligence. One full of curios and mementos, the occasional small item from his childhood, like a broken blaster that had been his first, an old cadet uniform, some marksmanship awards from the Academy. The other was full of Lt. Jaedin Ralyk’s life: a carefully packed trunk of personal effects that Hux had been permitted to take with him after his husband’s death. He hadn’t opened it in months, not since reuniting with Jae on Nar Shaddaa, but he was still reluctant to part with it. For three years it had been all he had left to prove he’d existed at all. Maybe next time they met, he’d offer it to him.

Tired of being distracted by maudlin thoughts, Hux huffed and rolled onto his other side. He pulled the blanket up over his bare shoulder and drew in slow, deep breaths until his mind grew drowsy again. It wasn’t so bad here. On this ship, with his crew, free to go wherever he wanted to go. The freedom to pick his battles, weigh the odds, choose his own fate. 

  
  


But in doing so Hux hoped he would never again walk the line between saviour and tyrant. 

* * *

He dreamed about it sometimes, Eradication Day. 

Awake, he had finally rationalized his actions. He had acted as a tool of the Empire, an unfeeling automaton who had performed his duty. The needs of the majority outweigh the needs of the few. Hundreds of thousands of people dead was still fewer than millions. It had been necessary, the calculations and statistics laid it out in black and white clarity. Watcher Two had persuaded him with those numbers and facts, as the only way to eliminate the threat of Darth Jadus. No one ever said being a Cipher agent would be easy.

But when he dreamed, he was back on the destroyer. Running through the halls, desperately shutting down the ship’s systems to trap the insane Sith Lord on the bridge. Fighting defectors at every turn, sweat and blood and tears running down his face as the communications broadcasts from each and every city, outpost, barracks, spaceport targeted by an Eradicator played throughout the ship. The final words of thousands of people, their voice cracking with fear, pleading for help, dying under the detached savagery of an orbital bombardment.

Hux always woke up tense and crying silently from those dreams.

  
  


There were other dreams, terrible dreams, nightmarish hellscapes of things he had done. Twisted and exaggerated, pulsing with negative emotion and  _ what ifs _ . What if he had been faster. More clever. What if he had disobeyed orders. What if he had left some people alive, to return to their lives, their families.

But what if he hadn’t been there at all? What if Alton Huxley had never left the Navy, what if Cipher Nine had been another person. What if that person couldn’t  _ handle _ the responsibility like him?

So far the odds always calculated better with him at the helm. So he would continue his mission, his life devoted to uncovering nefarious Republic plots, to safeguarding loyal citizens and troops. He would do everything in his power to keep moving forward. It was his destiny now, one of his own creation.

  
  


For the Empire.


End file.
